tea stained memoirs
by bluaria
Summary: It's been a year since she's seen him last yet Mimi glimpses fragments of Koushiro everywhere and remembers. [a series of chronological one-shots, eventual happy ending]
1. Chapter 1

It's in Paris when she catches a flicker of auburn.

It stuns Mimi into silence, paralysing her dancing green gaze and lively smile. The sight lures her focus from the photographer seated across her in their table of seven—scions of the fashion world shrouded in cigarette smoke, so removed from the town she was raised in and those within.

She squints as she chases the glimpse of the colour; a shade elusive yet familiar. _Where did you go?_ she thinks, narrowing her eyes further. _There you are._

Her eyes widen, breath catches.

A little girl, tipped forwards on delicate ankles, awaits her, mane of auburn framing impossibly pale skin leaving her spellbound. The colour is so red, so _perfect_ , that her chest aches—a sore that serves to remind rather than punish, festering with memories unsaid.

She eyes the messy strands alight in the winter sunset, strands which speak of nights spent at the office on leather couches, bloodshot irises softened by quiet pleas and persistent touches; of affectionate fingers curling through scarlet spikes, the scent of oolong tea entwining with cherry; the constant hum of the laptop marrying her unapologetic melody, somehow fitting a room crowded with clothing and gadgets.

Of clashes and compromise.

"Mimi?" the photographer questions, waving his cigarette. "Do you agree?"

Startled, she jolts before schooling her features into a charming smile and uttering an enthusiastic "yes!". The chatter at the table, unfazed, resumes—shielding her like a mask as she trails her sight towards once more, ignoring the strange trepidation within.

 _She's finished tying her shoelaces,_ the brunette notices, observing the girl rise to her feet and _smile._ She blinks, appeased. Her smile is nothing like his—toothy and giving without concern or care; not a quiet grin of triumph, eyes lit up in satisfaction, or a warm smile of acknowledgment. Even yet, her favourite: the smile shared between the two of them, affectionate and unguarded, a hint of laughter beneath his quirked lips.

A flicker of movement interrupts her reminiscing, calling her attention to the blonde man approaching the child. The annoyance in her eyes withers as the girl giggles in delight, launching herself at her father before linking their hands and walking away.

A soft smile curls her lips as reliefs wells within her. _Enough daydreaming,_ she scolds herself, refocusing on the scene around her. _He's fine. He's made his choices and you've made yours._

Frowning, she peruses the tea menu handed to her by the blonde waiter. Her gaze lingers on oolong, heady and familiar on her tongue...a scent warm upon her lips and his ski—

"I'll take matcha please," she requests, forcing a smile. Shaking herself out of the embrace of a phantom, of a redhead left behind in a labyrinth of smoke and sea.


	2. Chapter 2

Oolong.

She can smell it, heady in the summer air. The fragrance tempts and teases, curling over her skin as it nuzzles the curves of her bones—settling into the crook of her shoulder with the warmth of an embrace misplaced.

Mimi pauses, savouring the scent—a rare smell in the crowded streets of Milan where pungent coffee and irksome tomato reign. The lure of familiarity guides her closer, bewitching in the warm sun.

 _Step_. She pictures slim fingers sorting through tea leaves, touch gentle as he executes the task with a precision attained from incessant use. She had always admired his nimble fingers, skilled from hours spent meandering through codes and keyboards. They had reassured her with the sureness beneath his fingerpads, touch alleviating both worry and distress.

 _Step_. A smile then, coaxed from her chin pressed against his warm shoulder. He would smell like tea and technology: new yet, somehow, stagnant, she would observe before humming into the soft, green fabric of his shirt. Nose pressed against his back, arms locking into place around his waist as they listened to the whisper of the leaves mingling with their rhythmic breath.

 _Step_. She imagines his voice, crisp and articulate. "Mimi," he would admonish, a note of affection underneath. "I'm brewing." With a pout she would withdraw, concealing the quick flash of victory in her eyes at his flushed cheeks before perching on the counter. Then, she'd launch herself in a passionate account of the disgusting clothes spotted on her way home —" _tragic_!"—or a new dish she wanted to try, recipe pieced together from fragments of ideas and bursts of thought as he listened, interjecting occasionall—

"Ciao," a low voice interrupts her. "Pr—oh. Are you Japanese?"

Mimi blinks, annoyance ebbing at the rare sound of her native tongue in the Italian city. Curiosity wells within her as she nods at the elderly lady, an automatic smile sliding into place. "You got me!" she chirps, flouncing forward and extending a hand. "Tachikawa Mimi at your service."

The woman regards the brunette, appraising before beckoning her in. "Would you humour an old woman for some tea in return for conversation? It's been awhile since I've visited…" she trails off, eyes far away.

Mimi considers the offer, impending schedule weighing upon her. Dario'll _murder me if I don't turn up on time again...and it's an important shoot,_ she bites her lip. _But_...the hope in the lady's eyes makes her shift, torn.

"Ah…" she begins before relenting, persuaded by the beguiling aroma of tea and the woman's sincere smile. _Oh, well. I'll just buy him some tea as an apology,_ she sighed involuntarily, rueful. "Sure!" she agrees, casting aside her worries and stepping forward.

"Thank you kindly, child. It's been awhile since I've spoken to one of my fellow countrymen. I have so many questions to ask!" the shopkeeper turns, walking inside. "What will you have?"

"I'll have a ma—," she pauses, thoughtful. "...oolong tea, please," she requests, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she follows the lady inside the fortress, ignoring the possibility that lingers within. It echoes on each tea leaf, grooves murmuring of home.


End file.
